


After the Ice

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like his half-brother, the crossing to Middle Earth cost Fingolfin his youngest son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Ice

Nolofinwë stared, at first not quite comprehending what he was seeing. For a moment his mind reeled, not wanting to acknowledge the reality of the sight before him. Time seemed to stretch out for a few long seconds as he recognised the pale, pain-contorted face of his youngest son, streaked with mud and blood. Then he was running, stumbling, pushing past a few survivors searching for their loved ones. He dropped to his knees in the mud beside where Arakáno lay, heaving aside the body of an orc that had fallen across his son’s legs. He was alive, Nolofinwë saw with a surge of relief. But only just. Arakáno’s eyes were half-closed, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth with every effortful breath. His thick, dark hair was matted with blood, which ran down his face from the wound above his right eye. And there was an ugly, ragged gash in his stomach, where his light mail coat had been torn like fine silk by an orc scimitar. The blood pooled and soaked into Nolofinwë’s clothes, seeping into the gaps in his armour. He cradled his son, as though trying to physically hold the life within him.

But Nolofinwë knew that time was rapidly running out for Arakáno. Clumsily, desperately, he pulled off his cloak and tore strips of fabric from it, to bind his son’s wounds. Arakáno was semi-concious, and seemed to look up at him with something like curiosity as he did this, amidst the pain. He cried out when Nolofinwë wrapped his stomach wound tightly, his face a twisted mask, paper white under the blood and grime. His tears made pale tracks down his cheeks. Nolofinwë grimaced and carried on.

Arakáno was opening and closing his mouth, trying to speak.

“A… atar… I can’t…”

“Hush, Káno, don’t worry. Just… keep still. Help is on its way.”

“My… brothers? Irissë?”

“All safe.” Nolofinwë had no idea where his other children were, and the thought gnawed at him, the fear raw and present. But he wasn’t about to tell Arakáno that, not now. The attack had been a surprise, an ambush. He thought of Turukáno, imagining him fighting to the death to protect little Itarillë. He thought of Irissë. She was skilled with a sword, as skilled as her brothers, but the thought of his clever, proud daughter fighting many orcs turned his stomach with fear. And Findekáno… the battle would make him rash, cause him to abandon reason and tactics in the attempt to save those he loved. Nolofinwë wished he could protect them all, to send them all back to safety. Findekáno had wanted to leave, but the others had come primarily out of loyalty to him. He knew, with tired certainty, that he should have forbidden them, should have sent his children, the most precious thing he had, back to Tirion with Anairë. But he had not, and now Arakáno lay on the battlefield, the life leaking out of him moment by moment. He tied a strip of cloth around Arakáno’s head, trying to stop the bleeding. It’s too late, a cruel voice said in his mind, he’s lost too much blood. You can’t save him. He gritted his teeth again, pushing those thoughts away, concentrating all his attention on his makeshift bandages. Arakáno tried to speak.

“Atar, I’m sorry… I couldn’t…”

But then his words were drowned in a gurgling cough. Blood flecked both their faces. Arakáno’s eyes grew hazy and unfocussed, and then snapped back again, holding his father’s gaze. Then the muscles in face went slack, and his eyes moved no more, but stared, half-open, up at the murky sky. He was not breathing. Nolofinwë held his son’s body to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut and biting down hard on his lip. Somehow, everything seemed suddenly more real. He knew death well, was exquisitely well acquainted with it, had seen more deaths on the Ice than he wanted to remember. But now it was his own son. And he had thought they might finally be safe, now that they had survived the crossing. He had let his guard down, not expecting the attack. Not for the first time, he wondered what he had ever hoped to achieve. Even his anger at Fëanáro, the anger that had burned within him for so long, now seemed like a little, futile thing. He felt empty, and colder than he had ever been on the Helcaraxë. Fëanaro would have been able to save him, if it were his son, he thought, irrationally, his mind spiralling in circles. But no, he couldn’t let himself think like that, not anymore.

Instead he thought about his child who now lay dead in his arms. Arakáno had been younger than the others, and they had always treated him like the baby of the family, much to his annoyance. Nolofinwë remembered him begging Irissë to take him hunting, trailing after Findekáno asking a constant stream of questions, sitting on Turukáno’s lap as they took turns to read to each other from a book of children’s stories. He remembered when Arakáno had had a sudden growth spurt, and gone so quickly from the little round-faced, curly-haired child to a tall, willowy young almost-adult. He remembered the day when Findekáno and Turukáno had realised – with no little indignation – that their baby brother was now taller than either of them. He remembered Arakáno dancing with Anairë at Turukáno’s wedding. It almost shocked him, now, to think that they could really have been so happy at some point. He felt as if the memories where fading, as quickly as a pleasant dream.

He wanted to cry out, to scream at the Valar, at Moringotto, at Fëanáro, he wanted to do… something. Anything, to ride across the empty planes, to go on forever until the pain stopped, and he fell into the void at the edge of the world. But he was still a king, and he was still a father and grandfather. Gradually the chaotic emptiness inside him solidified into anger again, not hot this time, but hard and cold. He would carry on. They all would. They had no other option left.


End file.
